h you; Braemar I believe--the
vile hole. You know what a lazy rascal I am, so you won't be surprised
at a short letter, I know; indeed, you will be much more surprised at my
having had the decency to write at all. We have got rid of our young,
pretty, and incompetent maid; and now we have a fine, canny, twinkling,
shrewd, auld-farrant peasant body, who gives us good food and keeps us
in good spirits. If we could only understand what she says! But she
speaks Davos language, which is to German what Aberdeen-awa' is to
English, so it comes heavy. God bless you, my dear Cummy; and so says
Fanny forbye.--Ever your affectionate,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

_[Chalet am Stein, Davos], 22nd February '82._

MY DEAR CHARLES,--Your most welcome letter has raised clouds of sulphur
from my horizon....

I am glad you have gone back to your music. Life is a poor thing, I am
more and more convinced, without an art, that always waits for us and is
always new. Art and marriage are two very good stand-by's.

In an article which will appear some time in the Cornhill, _Talk and
Talkers_, and where I have full-lengthened the conversation of Bob,
Henley, Jenkin, Simpson, Symonds, and Gosse, I have at the end one
single word about yourself. It may amuse you to see it.

We are coming to Scotland after all, so we shall meet, which pleases me,
and I do believe I am strong enough to stand it this time. My knee is
still quite lame.

My wife is better again.... But we take it by turns; it is the dog that
is ill now.--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

In the early months of this year a hurt knee kept Stevenson more
indoors than was good for him.

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, February 1882._]

MY DEAR HENLEY,--Here comes the letter as promised last night. And first
two requests: Pray send the enclosed to c/o Blackmore's publisher, 'tis
from Fanny; second, pray send us Routledge's shilling book, Edward
Mayhew's _Dogs_, by return if it can be managed.

Our dog is very ill again, poor fellow, looks very ill too, only sleeps
at night because of morphine; and we do not know what ails him, only
fear it to be canker of the ear. He makes a bad, black spot in our life,
poor, selfish, silly, little tangle; and my wife is wretched. Otherwise
she is better, steadily and slowly moving up through all her relapses.
My knee never gets the least better; it hurts to-night, which it has